


Bohemian Men

by ember_alda



Series: Realms of Influence [10]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 12:24:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ember_alda/pseuds/ember_alda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Squalo is an opinionated contemporary artist that meets Yamamoto, an assassin, who briefly stops by his studio one day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bohemian Men

 

As soon as the bell rung at “ _Bella Vita_ ” and the door opened with one forceful, loud swing, Squalo rushed into the store. Hair flying, pants still dirty, and shirt torn in four different places, he brusquely made his way to the back.

At the counter the man at the register isn’t even fazed as he continues to avidly watch the news, eyes glued to the line of grainy faces arranged on the screen. The newscaster’s voice drones on unexcitedly about the numerous evacuations made in hotels and piazzas in the city after breakouts of violence. A voice shouts deafeningly from the back, long after the trail of silver hair left the clerk’s sight.

“The Vongola?! I don’t even want to hear about those fucking bastards. Turn that thing down, Bel!”

With his chin still resting on his hand, elbow propped on the wooden counter, Bel simply tunes it down two notches on the screen, not bothering to comply more than that.

“Eh? It’s interesting news. There’s been a shoot out in the street! They say it’s the escalating fight between the Millefiore and the Vongola heads, and they have their best assassins ready to expose themselves for just one chance at victory in the confrontation.”

Rattles of things being thrown aside and others being pushed on metal shelves ring through the tiny paint shop, Squalo’s impatience manifesting itself in disordered products and knocked over inventory. When he finally finds the last thing he needs, he drops a collection of paints in front of the younger man, digging in a splattered pocket for his wallet.

Bel lazily rings them up, fishing out a plastic bag as he watches the one foot television while taking care of his most moody customer.

“Fucking mafia, they’re an affront to Italy. I don’t care if they shoot each other’s skulls open, but out in Rome is despicable. Those trash don’t appreciate anything. This is going to be another Frangipani incident and _that_ time Trajan’s Column ended up with permanent bullet holes the size of oranges.”

“Artifacts kept out into the open should be expected to be damaged. If they wanted to preserve it they should have taken it to a museum.”

He can’t help the noise of utter disgust that crawls out of his throat. “Unappreciative brat. What the hell is wrong with Italy nowadays? Your fucking culture’s here and all you want to do is glaze your eyes over watching trash news about trash mafiosos.” Not that it surprised him, anything remotely hinting of gore and bloodshed would immediately draw Bel’s attention like the morbid freak he was.

A wave of the hand dismisses the artist who now has his products packed in a bag. “Ciao, see you next month.”

Squalo kicks open the door, bell dinging twice from the sheer force of the blow.

“See ya later.”

-0-

The one thing he didn’t expect when he got back was the vague form of a man standing inside the front display window of the gallery. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone here today, Squalo swore he locked up the studio when he went to the store and Oregano wasn’t on the schedule so she couldn’t have let him in.

He bangs open the foyer door and stalks inside, boots clunking in reverberating echoes in the mostly empty space.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing in here? We’re closed today.”

The suit turns around and Squalo is greeted by a startled face, the man’s younger features pinching into a sheepish look, not at all threatened by his presence.

“I’m sorry, the door was open so I thought it was ok to come inside.”

Squalo abruptly drops the plastic bags in his hand on the pristine wood floors, arm shooting out to point to the entrance he just came in.

“Well it’s not so there’s the door. Come back when we’re actually open.” The older man doesn’t even consider that this stranger might be a potential client, not diluting his normally harsh personality. This was why Xanxus and Oregano forced him to stay behind the scenes all the time (NOT because he was loud!), but if someone wasn’t here when they shouldn’t, clogging up his space, he wasn’t going to make exceptions.

“Ah, sorry again. I didn’t have any other chance to come so I walked in.” The stranger scratches the back of his head in an anxious gesture while his body dips in apologetic tone. His head turns to look at the large scale molded canvas tacked to the back display wall.

“I was just really impressed by that mural size work.”

Squalo scowls as he looks the suit up and down, pretty sure that the business man didn’t know a Rothko from a Benjamin Moore paint sample. The crisp shoes, the straight edge of his spine and the carefully folded pocket square were tell-tale signs of a pretender. Squalo suddenly feels the need to be entirely contrary to this irritating man that bursts into innocent artist’s studios on closing days and disrupted people’s schedules.

“There’s nothing impressive about it. Fucking paint on canvas, any man can do it.”

An arm drops as the man turns away from the back wall to look at him, the unnervingly warm light in his eye seeming to pierce through Squalo’s argumentative comments. The odd, close aura the man had was now focused on the canvas he’d tacked up, the huge work comprising almost the entire east wall of the studio.

“I don’t know, despite the large violent strokes, it’s very controlled. You make such straight lines; it only looks out of control because you want it to.”

Squalo stands back, not to look at this large scale canvas, but at the simple man who, despite his rigid attire, seemed to have a glaringly good intuition.

“It’s not art if it isn’t calculated. If an elephant splashed paint on a piece of paper it isn’t the same if I did it. I will _not_ be a fucking elephant for some jack-off who wants to impress people.”

Yamamoto laughs at the comparison. “You have surprising principles for a man who still sells his work. Isn’t that the same?”

A snarl erupts from the older man’s face, his hands gripping the edges of his jeans as the cold gleam in his eye widens at the accusation. “I’ll over charge and mark up whatever the hell I want, I’m popular and I want money, that’s nothing new in the world. But no one, _no one_ can tell me what to do. If it’s fucking genius then they better be able to pay for it because Superbi Squalo is not _cheap_.”

Yamamoto feels like he understands, now, where this cutting energy comes from in the painting. He had come inside on a whim, but once he’d seen that piece swallowing the entire room, he was forced to pause. Yamamoto’s pretty sure he’d pay whatever Squalo asked, for a slice of that vicious aspiration that colored the artist’s face right now. Looking at the stark colorless wall, bars of hasty, thick lines slashing across the faded, worn canvas, Yamamoto feels something sink into him from the message in the piece.

“I don’t think anything I’ve seen here today feels cheap at all.”

Squalo’s off-put by the sincere smile that creases the stranger’s eyes into soft crescents. Usually people are off-put by the way he speaks about anything, but the younger man doesn’t seem to be offended.

“It’s good that you like to live. Money, things, people, they’re all necessary to stay alive. I think it’s admirable.”

The artist shifts uneasily on his feet, somehow made uncomfortable by the warmth residing in the other man’s tone. Instead, he walks over to the sleek counter where the receptionist usually sat and plucked out at card from a clear plastic holder. Squalo flicks it to the businessman across from him, scowling.

“It’s more admirable if you buy it and hang it on the wall.”

There’s a pause as Yamamoto takes the card by the fingertips, their hands connecting for a brief moment through the slim paper wedged between them.

“Superbi Squalo, huh? Maybe I’ll come back sometime.”

He leaves without ceremony, Squalo left to watch a smooth exit standing by his dropped paints. When he finally turns to grab his bag from the floor there’s a small, dotted trail leading from where the stranger stood to the open glass doors. He bends in close, and from the swipe of his finger he rubs out the deep red of fresh blood.

Later that night, Squalo sees that man’s face on the news, and despite his initial dislike, wonder’s if the man will be able to come back and make a bid.

 

THE END

 

**Author's Note:**

> The idea of Squalo as an artist just took off for me, I imagined if he ever were an artist he would be ideal for post-modernism because he has a very "fuck you I do what I want and you'll like it" attitude, smashing all standards and being showy XD


End file.
